


sweeter than honey

by ossseous (ozean)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ass Play, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Face-Sitting, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Open Marriage, Orgasm Denial, Rimming, Sugar Daddy, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-10-29 07:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozean/pseuds/ossseous
Summary: Basically where Percival Graves gets off on getting a certain Credence Barebone off and then paying him for the "experience."





	1. Chapter 1

He pays for lunch like he is folding his last round of poker: with a sigh and a toss of a few bills in the middle of their empty plates.  Credence can’t help but always notice the way his plate is all but licked clean while Mr. Graves leaves some of his food behind.  He knows it is because he’s more accustomed to nicer, healthier meals.  If it were up to him, they’d probably have something more upscale, where the portions leave your stomach growling an hour later.  But Mr. Graves always caves, always agrees to meet in some filthy diner where the chicken swims in grease and the fries come covered in five different cheeses.  In all honesty, Credence can’t afford even these kinds of places on his own, so when Mr. Graves is paying, he is taking.

Even so, Credence doesn’t think it has much to do with what he wants.  Mr. Graves isn’t necessarily prone to pampering.  Credence knows it’s highly unlikely they will ever run into someone from his circle in a place where one is just as likely to get shot as they are to get heart disease.  He also knows his own preference comes second for these kinds of things.

“You ready?” Mr. Graves asks, wiping each of his fingers clean methodically, paper napkin threatening to rip.

“Yeah,” he says, and slides out of the booth.

He’s learned in the last couple of months to just go with it.  He lets Mr. Graves lead him out of the restaurant, lets him call them a cab (they always stop for him as he steps off the curb, hand in the air and steel Cartier watch glinting in the midday sun).

He does listen when Credence says no, though.  Like the time he almost came in the cab.  Mr. Graves took a business call and Credence bit the inside of his cheek as a careless hand squeezed up the inside of his thigh, a hard massage of fingers up his leg, a soothing sweep of his palm down it.  It was almost innocent until his little finger, with his school ring and all, started to tease relentlessly against the fabric covering his cock.  When he moaned Mr. Graves completely ignored it, but the cabbie’s eyes shot up to his like a gunshot to the heart.  It wasn’t much a relief when the guy just rolled his eyes like “it’s one of those rides.”

When they finally got to his apartment, after he frantically unlocked the door, after he nearly bust it down in his rush to get inside, after he pried open the fly of his jeans to slip his hand in and give himself relieving tugs of his cock, that was when Mr. Graves finally hung up the phone.

“Don’t do that again,” he said, and he wished it hadn’t sounded so much like a request, like he was begging for one of the most powerful men in New York City’s mercy.

Mr. Graves slipped his hands in his pockets as he stepped further into the apartment, eyes tracking down, watching the movement of his fist behind the dark stretch of his boxer briefs.  He nodded, not even bothering to look away, to look up to where Credence sucked in deep breath after deep breath, where he gnawed away at his lip, where he searched for him with his eyes.  “Okay,” he said.

So when Mr. Graves opens the cab door and Credence eases in, sliding over to the other seat, he knows the deal.  Mr. Graves slides in after him and recites Credence’s address so easily that Credence has to force himself not to read too much into it.  And then, barely even acknowledging his presence, he answers emails or returns calls or texts his secretary, probably telling her how much money to put in Credence’s account.

It’s when they get into the apartment that things change a little.  There is something surreal about seeing a man so clean cut in an apartment where half the miniblinds are cracked and dry rotted.  Its hard to hide the water stain in the ceiling from that time the upstairs tenant chose to ignore the fact that their shower was leaking for over a week, even harder still to disguise the way the paint has peeled away from the drywall and the radiator only works when the knob is tilted at a certain angle.  Even he seems to understand how out of his element he is, that it’s a kind of life he’s never known and will never understand.  It might be the only time in his life he’s ever even had to be in something as small as a studio apartment.

And it is always then, in that brief space of time as he is getting his bearings—just after he’s tossed his suit jacket onto Credence’s bed and turned back to him, that Credence has the courage to edge him back against the door and press hungry, sucking kisses to his dry lips or the burr of his barely-even-there stubble.  He takes any inch of skin he can possess and just for that moment, Mr. Graves lets him.  Lets Credence take, lets Credence explore and gorge himself with patience until finally, Mr. Graves nudges him back a little.

Just like that, the control slips away and he really doesn’t mind.  He pulls his shirt up to his chest at the silent command of a pluck at its hem.  He catches his breath as Mr. Graves straightens the rumpled state of his own clothes and Credence can’t remember, but it must be from his own hands, where he had clutched and squeezed and rubbed and ached to just once get to unwrap him.

He won’t get to see what is underneath those fine fabrics because like always, Mr. Graves roughly plucks open his jeans, heedless of the way the hem pinches into his hips, uncaring of a particularly hard press of his knuckles that has Credence wincing as he jerks the zipper down.

It feels impossibly tight, how hard he squeezes his fingers together, like his knuckles might get as white as the shirt he is holding.  And no matter how many times it happens, he’ll never be prepared for the way his guts dip and churn when Mr. Graves drops down to his knees and tugs his jeans and underwear down like a second thought.

And really, what it all comes down to, is the eyes.  How they watch him, a hand planted flat on his stomach and his cock getting harder and harder in that wet mouth.  It’s like a spell the way he can’t look away, like he has to witness every second of it as lips work him almost too expertly and he has to wonder how many young men were in this same position before him.  How many knew the way Mr. Graves liked to get him as wet as possible, the smell of saliva sharp just under that tang of the sweat collecting on his skin.

He nearly whines when he pops off altogether, jacks his wet cock, smears his lips against the vein in his shaft, not even giving it a chance to throb before swallowing him back down.

There is a little threat of pressure in the fine, warm silk of his mouth.  The ridges of neat teeth brushing, hard and unforgiving are what spur Credence against his instinct, causing him to thrust deep.  Guilt swelters across his skin when Graves pulls off and coughs back against a gag.  Credence is sure that is it, that he has ruined the whole thing.  He almost drops his shirt to reach out, to get ready to grovel and let the apologies spill out of that gushing wound of his dignity, but Graves just fixes him with a warning glare.  He really wishes he knew how someone could strike him down ten notches even with the strain of red in their eyes, or the wet mess of their raw lips.

He only relinquishes Credence from that look when he presses those lips lower, brushing them lightly to the base of his cock, letting his tongue lave out against skin and hair.  He presses into his hip, sucks a warm kiss into the crease of his thigh before nudging his legs apart and all Credence can do is watch and try to remember to breathe past the lightheadedness and the furious pump of blood through his veins.

Mr. Graves spreads his hands down to his knees, only to come up the back of his thighs.  Those eyes finally find their way back to him, unreadable and inscrutable as he lets his mouth fall slack, peeks his tongue out just enough to cover those sharp incisors.

Air flutters out from his lungs and Mr. Graves, hands a bruising pinch at the top of his legs, eases him forward.  His cock twitches and he bites back the hollow whine, lets it get stuck somewhere in the back of his throat to be reclaimed later when he is remembering this moment.  The way the fat head of his cock, nearly purple with strain, nudges forward against Mr. Graves’s tongue.  Slipping like velvet against his frenulum as he eases deeper inside of him.

He’s so distracted by how well his cock seems to fit into the tight space of that throat that he almost doesn’t notices how Mr. Graves fingers slip easily between his legs, press up, massaging in slow, gradual passes into his crease.  He has to brace a hand against the wall, the barest hint of pressure against his hole as fingers rub circles into him.  Any harder, he thinks, and Mr. Graves will be pressing up inside of him and that’s enough to bring him to the brink.  He tries to stutter out a warning, to pull out, but all he gets out between his teeth are garbled curses as he empties out every ounce of his pleasure on the back of Mr. Graves’ tongue.

He eases out as Mr. Graves slowly pulls his fingers away, draws his hands up to his hips, rubs them encouragingly until he finally falls free from those lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly.  He’s never come in his mouth before, never, always knows when to pull out.  He lets his shirt fall down and offers a hand to help Mr. Graves up.

“It’s fine.” And to his surprise, he really doesn’t seem to care that much, and he looks more bothered by the light roughness to his voice.  He takes the hand.  “Bathroom?”

He gestures to the door, stooping to pull his pants back up as Mr. Graves leaves the room.  He schleps his tired body over to his bed, sinking back into the creak of springs.  Tilting his head to the side, he watches Mr. Graves through the doorway.  It’s a strangely intimate moment, watching him wash his hands, his face.  He cups some water and rinses his mouth out and before Credence can tell him where he stashes his mouthwash, Mr. Graves steps out.  He smooths back the hairs that fell loose, straightens his tie, adjusts the front of his trousers, not even trying to hide his attempt to make the hard outline of his cock as unnoticeable as possible.

And this is the part he doesn’t like, when Mr. Graves lifts his suit jacket from the bed and shrugs it back on and says, “The money should be transferred over by tomorrow, day after at the latest.”

“Okay.”  It’s all he can really respond with.

He doesn’t even say goodbye and they don’t make future plans.  The fact that there is only a fifty-fifty chance Mr. Graves will contact him again leaves an almost sour feeling blooming in his chest, but all he can do is prop himself up and watch as Mr. Graves leaves.  Part of him hates how it just seems right for him to go.  As though he never belonged in that little, decaying apartment in the first place, like his presence there was some astronomical anomaly that threatened to rip through the fabric of reality like sheers through silk.

He sighs and falls back on the bed and hopes that he’ll get another call soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for more context I would say the last part was set around maybe not the START start of their arrangement, but towards the beginning of it. Meanwhile this part is set after it’s been going on a little while longer? Maybe longer than either of them expected it to last?

It doesn’t surprise him that Mr. Graves knows when his birthday is. Credence isn’t big on computers himself but even he knows how to Google. And Google he does. Right after he first learns Mr. Graves’ name, right after taking the job, he finds himself spending the evening scrolling through news articles and blog posts and tabloids until his eyes feel dry. It starts out as a precaution because does anyone really enjoy the idea of ending up dead in a dumpster? But he isn’t quite sure that what he discovers is all that much of an improvement. The internet provides a disturbingly open view of his public life, like some kind of secret informant spy person, waiting to give him every detail he could think of, served up to him on a platter. It gives him everything from what policies he supports, the charities he helps fund, the PACs he benefits from, all the way down to his religious views and his alma mater.

It is when he starts to learn too much, like the name of the Graves’ family dog, or when he sees the flash of images revealing just what his family looks like, that is when he exits out of the browser altogether. At the very least he deduces that if Mr. Graves is in fact a murderer, he is incredibly good at hiding it.

And there is no doubt in his mind that Mr. Graves probably did a little more than just a Google search on him. Certainly, something like a nice thorough background check is hardly more than a blip on his bank account. It’s something he tries not to think about too often. He knows if did, he’d end up spiraling, wondering just what information Mr. Graves was able to retrieve on him. Did he know about the group homes, the foster parents, the police reports? And so on and so forth.

So no, it’s not a surprise that Mr. Graves knows. What comes as a surprise is when he tells Credence, rather uneventfully while leaning against his cluttered kitchen counter one early afternoon, that they could do whatever it is that Credence wants to do that day.

And what is even more surprising is when, after stammering out a little too quickly that he wants Mr. Graves to sit on his face, Mr. Graves agrees.

He doesn’t agree quickly, mind you. Instead he seems to think it over for a minute. Then he considers Credence for a whole other minute. And then, just as Credence is sure he is going to get a flat-out denial, Mr. Graves shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it along the back of one of his dinette chairs. Before Credence can even ask if that means “yes,” Mr. Graves strolls off to the bathroom, shutting the door gently behind him.

Credence sits himself down at the foot of his bed as he waits for him to return. It’s where he spends a lot of his time, the minutes passing when he’s doing homework or watching TV or putting on his shoes in the morning. He picks at the corner of his old bedspread, he has to do something, anything with his hands to distract him from that constant hum of doubt that has become an old friend for him. At least he does until he hears the loud squeak of the faucet turning and finally the beating rush of water rumbling through the pipes. He collapses back on the bed, staring at the ceiling overhead, thoughts warring within his mind between the one possibility that it is actually going to happen, and the other possibility that he is just imagining everything. That in the very near future he is going to wake up from a very, very good dream.

With that thought, he snakes his hand down. His fingers light in their path down his stomach until they reach the waist of his jeans. It’s like he has to chase after the opportunity any time it arises. He toys with the idea of going full on, popping the button open, slipping his hand inside and palming open that suture of pleasure that always manages to wind up tight inside him the second Mr. Graves enters his apartment. But he resists the urge and cups his palm over his fly instead, eases some of the tightness out of him with deep massaging strokes of his cock through his jeans. The effect feels muffled, half as good as skin contact, and yet relieving all the same.

When he realizes he finally might get to see the expanse of inches making up Mr. Graves’ skin, his hips stutter of their own volition, lifting minutely off the bed to edge into his warm hand in nice, rhythmic thrusts.

Of course he remains locked in that space, eyes shut against the jarring light of his apartment and thoughts so deep within his own musings that he doesn’t hear the shower shut off.

But he definitely hears the door click open, quiet and perhaps unnoticeable to any other’s ears. The addition of a sound feels so much more substantial to him than the absence of one.

Credence ventures his eyes open, almost hesitant to look him over, hesitant to put an end to all the curiosity. When he finally glances, he finds Mr. Graves just standing there, half way through the process of wiping the stray drops of water from his skin with Credence’s favorite towel. He doesn’t look nervous, doesn’t even look uncertain, he just looks, well, like him. Oh how he manages to still command a room, dripping wet and naked. Mr. Graves pauses, half way out the doorway and into the main room to watch Credence and his ministrations. It was something they did often. So many midafternoons spent on his bed, hand buried in his underwear. Mr. Graves would drag one of the chairs from the dinette over and just watch, sometimes he’d text someone, sometimes he might even talk on the phone to someone as Credence kept his voice locked away behind a clenched jaw.

The whole thing had been awkward that first two or three times. Now it feels like second nature as he keeps his hand going for him. Constantly spurred on by the knowledge that this is exactly what Mr. Graves wants. _Him_.

He tries his best to keep his eyes from fluttering shut once more when Mr. Graves strides easily, all too naturally, over to the foot of his bed and stops right at his knees.

There isn’t any preamble. Perhaps Mr. Graves doesn’t want there to be even the opportunity for the situation to become awkward. He drops the towel on the floor before plucking his kneading hand up by the wrist, tossing it aside to the bed. He has to push back against the impulse to bring it back, to squeeze more of those jolts of pleasure through his hips as Mr. Graves crawls over top of him, working his way carefully up the bed and up Credence until he is straddling him, hovering just over his chest.

Credence looks up at him, hands fidgeting uselessly where they rest on the bed. He can’t move them. He knows all too well that if Mr. Graves moves something somewhere, it means Credence isn’t supposed to move it back.

“Are you sure you really want to do this?” he asks, as though he can’t understand why Credence would want to do it in the first place.

Credence nods. For a moment he entertains the idea of just grabbing him by the hips and hauling him the rest of the way up, but he doesn’t think that is something of which Mr. Graves would approve of. Though Mr. Graves doesn’t even really give him the opportunity to so as he resituates himself not seconds later, thighs bracketing Credence’s face, his knees pressing hard into what Credence knows all too well are the uncomfortable springs of his old mattress.

It’s quite a view. His cock isn’t even hard, not like Credence’s is, but the aesthetic of it all, the angle, the lines, the shadow of hair, the cut of muscle-- not quite svelte, not incredibly muscular… it’s every bit as good Credence thought it might be.

He cranes his neck up then and buries his face between his legs. There is no excuse for him to dive in so quickly beyond the fact that he just doesn’t want to give Mr. Graves a moment to overthink it and reconsider. So he just goes for it, chancing a kiss to the warm, soft expanse of skin just behind his balls. He keeps his eyes trained on him as he flicks his tongue out in an almost curious lap. Mr. Graves just stares right back down at him, expression something unreadable. Something Credence has never seen on him before. He flattens his tongue, draws a long stripe before sucking and pulling one of his balls into his mouth.

Mr. Graves’ eyes slide shut on a groan, and as though reading his mind and finding just what Credence wants within the coils of his brain, he grips his fingers tight into his hair. It feels a little better to have his hair off his forehead as he laves and suckles at the loose skin for a moment before switching to the other. He gives it the eager attention it deserves, hollowing his cheeks to take it in as far as he can before popping off altogether. With that he shimmies lower down the bed, deeper between Mr. Graves’ legs, to get to his prize.

He starts a little more slowly with his hole. For a split second, he is too busy wondering if any others before him have used it like he wants to: thoroughly and completely. How many others have seen Mr. Graves’ skin? How many others have gotten to see this vulnerate part of him? He presses the tip of his tongue to that tight ring of muscle and breathes in deep the scent of that soapy warmth still clinging to his skin. It’s his soap, he realizes, the musk familiar enough that he is almost blind to it, but mingled with Mr. Graves scent it smells so much sharper, almost tangible as he smothers his own breaths against his skin. His thoughts tumble over that a good second or two, languid with each deep inhale before he finally looks up. He can’t help but groan in sympathy as Mr. Graves leans forward then, bracing a hand against the bed. For a moment Credence thinks he might let go of his hair to grab his cock with his free hand. It’s already started twitching in his unbiddable interest, longing for some kind of contact, relief. But he knows it is a fruitless thought and as though on cue, he flattens it out against the bedspread as well.

He lifts his own hands then, a risk, he knows it. But Mr. Graves is too lost in his own attempts at self-control to notice as he rubs them along those thighs, relishing in the feeling of the soft hair there under his fingertips as he presses them up with squeezing pauses, trailing higher until he gets to Mr. Graves’ hips. Tentatively, he flattens them out against his stomach, the muscles tightening at the touch.

He knows it’s far from ideal for Mr. Graves. Nearly every time he leaves the apartment, he is doing so while sporting a very noticeable erection. Of course Credence never gets the opportunity to watch Mr. Graves come undone. That part of their relationship isn’t for him, he knows it, he knows. But he still wonders if he relieves himself on the car ride back to his office. Maybe later, Mr. Graves finds himself after hours, hand working under his desk to relieve himself of whatever searing state Credence left him in. Maybe sometimes it too much to will away or pick up later. Maybe he has to stop in some restroom halfway back to down town and jerk himself off behind the barely existent privacy of a bathroom stall door.

Credence has come so many times to those daydreams. And all he has wanted sense is to simply witness it. So he goes harder, each pass of his tongue pressing deeper and deeper. It is then that he decides to test the waters. Credence, with as much care and stealth he can manage with someone sitting on his face, brushes his thumb out, just along the head of his cock.

And Mr. Graves’ hips buck at the touch, pushing down onto Credence’s tongue, seeking him out in such a blatant want that Credence can’t help but meet the movement just as readily. He alternates wet laps into his hole with featherlight brushes of his fingers along the length of his cock. He keeps the touches gentle at first, the skin like velvet and getting wetter with each drip of clinging pre-come.

Everything seems a little quieter down there, all the noise cancelled out by either Mr. Graves’ thighs or that slight ringing in his ears that is gradually gaining pitch as more blood rushes to his head with every second. He’s not really sure which it is, but somewhere beyond that enveloping quiet he hears the faint hiss of a desperate curse. All he wants to do is edge him deeper, pull him past that last little bit he needs, so he spears his tongue and pushes it in as deep as he can.

The muscles in his neck ache and the fingers return to his hair suddenly, balling up a handful so tight that pain dances across his scalp before it relents altogether. He looks up for answers, only to find Mr. Graves twisting, his shoulders pivoting and Credence can’t figure out why until he feels his button on his jeans pop open. He groans, burying the sound deep between Mr. Graves’ legs, lifting his hips to chase that mere suggestion of a touch as his zipper slides open and a warm hand unceremoniously dives down under the elastic of his underwear.

Credence bites back sob as fingers circle him tight and reward him with languid tugs. He thinks he’s already far ahead of Mr. Graves on that front, all too ready to let that pleasure unspool inside of him. And that is the point he realizes there is no reason to be indecisive anymore. He takes Mr. Graves’ cock fully in hand.

He almost doesn’t hear the whispered _fuck_ as he gets in a few good pulls. He’s slick under his hand, his pre-come dropping into his hair in stringy drips. But before he can pull Mr. Graves along all the way to the edge of that devouring need he knows has to mirror the one settled in him, his hand gets pushes aside. Credence would have complained but Mr. Graves replaces it with his own hand before shifting back and away from him altogether.

Credence takes the opportunity to get in a couple of deep breaths, unaware of how little oxygen he was taking in before. He only has time to think Mr. Graves must be close to coming before he is, streaks landing across his cheek, the bridge of his nose. It earns a jolt of surprise from him, but he quickly shuts his eyes. He feels a third pulse out across his forehead.

He feels pretty certain that none has landed on his eyes, so he peaks them open. Maybe he shouldn’t have though, because finds Mr. Graves staring down at him with that same expression as before. It’s not something he wants to overanalyze, not then, not when need continues to pulse out under his skin. Thankfully that moment doesn’t last because before he can think about it more, Mr. Graves is climbing off of him, laboring to catch his breath as he gets off the bed altogether.

He really doesn’t expect what comes next. For hands to unceremoniously grasp under his knees and yank him down in one smooth motion until his hips are flush with the edge of the bed. He leans up to watch as Mr. Graves drops to his knees on the floor and peels his jeans down his thighs, right over his knobby knees. Without warning, he swallows Credence down.

Credence gasps against the feeling of that beautiful, wet, warm mouth taking him in. It’s something he knows just as well as he knows the burn of Mr. Graves’ ever assessing stare when he wants Credence to get off for him. He isn’t sure there is anyone on the planet quite as good at sucking cock as Mr. Graves. He wants to grab his hair, his cheeks, his neck, anything he can get his hands on and just fuck his mouth. But he grapples at the bedspread instead as he feels himself tip closer and closer.

He spreads his legs as far as he can with his calves still trapped in his jeans and without missing a beat, Mr. Graves settles between them. Resting his clenched fist in the hollow of Credence’s chest, he spreads his fingers out every few moments to knead the muscles of his chest, to massage hefty, pulling pinches into his nipples. It leaves Credence gasping for air, thrusting his hips, pushing his cock past those lips as Mr. Graves regards him from under dark lashes.

He starts to come on a thrust in and while Mr. Graves sputters a little against the surprise of it, he still takes Credence down to the root. He knows by then that Mr. Graves wants his load, wants it pulsing against the roof of his mouth, slipping down his throat, pooling on his tongue. Credence pushes his head back, shuts his eyes tight as he knows what comes next.

He hasn’t thought once about keeping Mr. Graves. Like, _keeping him_ keeping him. Seeing him in his bed every morning, coming home to him at night, having him whenever he wants, and being had whenever he wants. It is too dangerous a thought, so he doesn’t even let himself entertain the concept. Yet as he settles down, as he melts back into the bed and the world comes back into focus around him, he realizes at some point in the spread of minutes past, he had grabbed Mr. Graves’ hand. One clenched tight around the back of it, the other with a grip around his wrist. And with the mounting realization that soon he will have to let it go, he lets himself think about how much he wants to keep him, just for a second.

But he doesn’t let go, not immediately and Mr. Graves doesn’t pull it away either. He thinks distantly that he feels Mr. Graves rub his thumb absently across one of his fingernails as his softening cock finally drops from his mouth.

Credence leans up, watching as Mr. Graves kisses his hip, trailing to the flat plane of his stomach before slipping back down to his cock. He doesn’t expect Mr. Graves to take him back into his mouth, to take eager, sucking laps, cleaning him of every last remnant of his pleasure.

The moment breaks with a buzz from his dinette. It feels like an intrusion, like someone might as well have just walked straight into his apartment, because Mr. Graves immediately pulls away. Credence uncurls his hands from the crushing grip and lets him go.

He watches as Mr. Graves shuffles over to the chair and rifles through the jacket pockets for a moment until finally fishing his phone free. Credence doesn’t bother to try and find out what it is about. It is none of his business. So he kicks his jeans the rest of the way off and slides off the bed.

He decides to take a shower, just to give Mr. Graves the convenience of leaving without any pleasantries if that is what he wants. Once behind that closed door, he takes in his own reflection, the come drying on his face, in his hair. He’s not quite sure how much hot water is left when he cranks the shower on, but even a tepid shower was doable for him in that moment.

When he finally comes out, pulling on his pajama pants from the night before, he finds Mr. Graves already fully dressed and waiting patiently in the kitchen.

“You’re still here,” he says. It isn’t a question and it doesn’t really feel romantic or anything, but he feels a little surprised. He walks over to the counter and Mr. Graves doesn’t move from the spot he has claimed. He just keeps a keen eye on him the entire short distance from the bathroom to the kitchen, until Credence pushes into his space, boxes him in where he stands.

He wants to ask him what he wants. Why he waited, what is it that he gets out of their thing that he can’t get out of his time with his wife. But he kisses him instead. Not some long languid kiss, the kind that Credence likes best. But Mr. Graves’ mouth easily falls open for him like that is what it was made to do. His tongue peeks out to brush along his for a moment before Credence pulls away entirely.

He swallows, opens his mouth to say something, but Mr. Graves speaks first.

“The money should transfer to your account by tomorrow.”

It seems that no matter how many times he hears it, it still feels like a shock to his system. Ice water hitting his head and running down his shoulders, his spine. It isn’t necessarily shame he feels, that feeling disappeared long before. Maybe it’s fear that the longer and longer they do this whole thing, it will feel easier and easier to forget what they are actually doing.

He steps back and nods and only a few seconds pass before Mr. Graves is gone without a goodbye.

And that part, even after so long, is still the most relieving. He thinks that Mr. Graves is the type to save his goodbyes up. Use them for the people he truly never intends to see again. And Credence still isn’t quite sure he will ever be ready for the time when Mr. Graves steps out of his apartment and says goodbye to him.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm on [tumblr](http://ossseous.tumblr.com).


End file.
